


Karuizawa

by TheEternal (XxmaniacxX)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Canon Dialogue but in a different context, Canon-Typical Violence, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, I swear Will and Hannibal are fine, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kissing, Knives, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Shakespeare, Vomiting, Will Graham has a Panic Attack, Will Graham's fucked up dream world, Will just dwells on loneliness and thinks he needs a drink in him somestimes, and Hannibal would never take advantage of Will, cuddling i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:07:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxmaniacxX/pseuds/TheEternal
Summary: Will "I had two fingers of whiskey before I went to bed" Graham sometimes overdoes it. Until it was time to make the final decision (or 3 times Will got drunk, and the one time he didn’t)
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	Karuizawa

**Author's Note:**

> Rewriting a chunk of season 2 because I have a God Complex and am tired of greek tragedy. Have some japanese 40 % v/v pure malt whiskey and some sweet dishes. (Tried to keep into the episode-naming tradition/pattern, but if any is wrong please tell me and I'll correct it!)

* * *

i. oshiruko (お汁粉 / soup-like dessert )

* * *

Amber on a glass, darkened porch. Some days he felt older, but not in an old-soul kinda way. It was architectural, intrinsic. He could count the thickness and color of his rings, like a gentle battered tree. Not that he felt gentle, or battered. He wished he did. It burned, the cheap liquor, but not more than it should. For having bought it at the first store on the way home, it was good. 

A glance around the scene, going through the checklist. Dogs? lying there besides him. Groceries? in the fridge, he’d taken them out of the car already. Aspirin? Instinctively went to the front pocket of his pants, a reassuring rattle. All in place. Another glass? **Why not?**

It was warm, or at least warmer than usual. Forgoing a jacket, he’d sat outside, shortly after coming home. Medicine. The cure to a rough day had always been a whiskey and the moon. Looking over the plains, the snow thawing at a snail’s pace, it stung. Loneliness stung. He'd heard it described as a stab but he knew it wasn’t that quick, the feeling of wishing for someone else, anyone else, if you’re desperate enough. _Pour yourself another one, Will, it’s forever you and your pack of strays._

Was he doomed in that way? Should he accept his fate, the stinging? Being a stranger to family does that to you, doesn’t it? _If it’s not pre-packaged, you don’t know how to grow it_. Maybe he just had to wait, be swept off his feet.

Deep rumble of a belly laugh. Yeah, he was drunk; no doubt that was a drunk man’s thought. Nobody was going to sweep him off his feet except they were tackling him. Except he slipped on someone’s blood. Life seemed to be heading towards a point where it would be his own. Somber, shadowed. No lights were turned on inside his house. 

There was too little left not to finish it, and it wasn’t that big a bottle anyway. The dogs huffed in their sleep. Peacefully dreaming together. Companionship wore as oversized on him as family. Apparently only solitude is a one-size fits all. And to some it resembled a ring more than a glove. He’d married young. 

The bottle and glass clicked against the edge of the railing. He knew better than to take a shower like this, but he needed something else to sting. Needed to stand under the boiling water. Locked inside his head, trying very hard to stand. Couldn’t take a step without the world slanting perilously. Couldn’t stand without swaying, a bag of wet sand come to life. 

Lights. Flopped back into the seat, hand to shield him from the light. What was a car doing this late and this in the middle of nowhere? Jack never drove this far at night, not even in an emergency.

“Will?” 

“Hannibal?” Dripping molasses, thick and difficult. He’d never realized how difficult it was to pronounce that name.

“Are you alright?”

Not a shout but it was too hard on his ears. Sensory overwhelmed, shaking his head.

“What, _you came all the way here just to ask that?_ ”

The other man wore a vulnerable expression. It was refreshing, he seemed his age for once. The youthful whimsy behind his eyes, completely curtained.

“You didn’t come to today’s appointment, and my calls went unanswered. I phoned Jack and he hadn’t seen you since last week’s case.”

He swallowed, a breathless sigh.

“I was worried.”

Will’s eyes glazed. He wanted to laugh, but he was afraid if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He’d burst like a hyena. The only person that seemed to care about him was the fucking Chesapeake Ripper. The man who’d framed him, betrayed him, made him believe he’d murdered (and ate!) the closest thing to a child he would ever have. 

And yet he’d rather not be alone. What did that say about him?

“Will?”

“You can smell my cologne from a mile away but can’t recognize whiskey?”

“A very articulate drunk can fool the sober.”

Coat swishing behind him, leather shoes turning the bottle over ever so slightly.

“You drank this all by yourself, I assume”

He nodded, something wasn’t right. Something was missing.

“May I ask the occasion?” _Is this funny to him?_ ”Store-brand liquor is as strong as a prescription sedative.”

The implication was caught. He wasn’t that out of it.

“I‘m sleeping fine”

The dogs. They weren’t barking. Why weren’t they barking?

“You come here when I’m away?”

Furrowed brow, not entirely sure if he was accusing him of _something_ , or just merely curious.

“What makes you say that?”

“The dogs feel safe, they are still sleeping”

He sat on the other chair, brushing the leaves off.

“I’m not a threat to them. Or to you”

The drunk man seemed unbothered by his presence. He wanted to be with Will, even if that meant sitting in silence.

They looked at the moon in all its glory. Wolftrap had that gift, the privilege, of being regularly bathed in her grey light. A pill amidst the cotton sea. Maybe he should stop with the over the counter medication. It was imprinting his imagination. God knows he didn’t need any more in there. Out of the corner of his eye, the shadow remained in place.

Almost mockingly, it popped into place, _did he really drive an hour because he was worried?_

“Why did you come? Nobody comes here. Not at night. Not unless they need something from me.”

Closed eyes. Tired. Tired but too wound up to go to sleep then and there. Resignation dripped upwards from his shoulders to the crown of his head. Night in zero gravity, lifting his spirits from the wrong end. 

“I don’t want anything from you. I just needed to know you were alright.”

Speaking to the night and the wilderness, unwilling to face each other.

“You seem to want my company. You haven’t left yet.”

His own voice, distant, the deepening of an echo. Dreamlike haze tunneling the scene. A censored dot on the sky. Pulled back, into his seat, the voice pulled him back.

“Do you want me to leave, Will?” Sincerity was not a usual note in his inflexion, not as bare as that.

“No” A confession.

He brought his hands to his face, hunching over, crashing back to Earth.

If he’d felt like fading before, now he had become a ghost. If he asked Hannibal to hold him, would he be able to? Or would he dissolve into the air, blown away by the faintest of breezes? Thick smoke, like the ones he’d seen huffed out by the men working at the piers. Was he as strong as that? Or was he the ever glowing smog from exhaustion pipes in the big city?

Crying in front of the other man had never been an option, but lately he’d had no options left for anything. Circumstances forced his hand everyday. Heels of his palm against his eyes, bandaids on a broken dam.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

Hannibal didn’t know what to do. Will was not someone who seemed to abade to the standard comforting rules. For him, touch could make it worse, the spiraling. But he couldn’t just watch, not when it came to him.

A firm hand on his shoulder, a palm to his back, the silhouette mirroring his edge of the seat. 

The warmth, worn out glue, nothing made sense. He didn’t want to be let go and he didn’t want to hold on. He couldn’t breathe. Or he could, but it didn’t feel like enough. Feverish and deoxygenated. Fever. Was he running a fever of the lungs? Could the blood flow through them? 

_Was this even happening?_

“Keep your head between your knees. It 's alright. You are real, Will. I’m right beside you.”

He tried the tricks, the breathing techniques, but he couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop running wild in his head, the snot lodged behind his skull or the spit in the edge of his lips. Melting and melding and stirring, a wooden blend and the huff of the wind and the pounding in his ears. The tears, they stung, even the tears stung, fucking stinging, and staining and dripping, eveything dripping from him, draining him, running through him. He couldn’t feel anything but the red and the heat and his ears, no wind, where had all the wind gone, whe-

Thin and yellow liquid dripping from his mouth, from in between the floorboards, from the tip of the italian leather and drenched soles.

Whirring of a chair, hurried steps. 

Now the dogs barked.

Will tried to stand but toppled over. He could already see himself knocked out cold in a puddle of his own vomit, but he didn’t. He’d closed his eyes but the thud never came. 

Hannibal was holding him. Still in place. A wet rag in hand to wipe his face.

“Thank you” he mumbled, going for a hug. The other man lost his balance but didn’t fall. Tightly bound by arms. “I’m fucking sorry about your shoes” a slow blubber from between the lapels of the tan coat.

* * *

ii. manjū ( 饅頭 / steamed shaped cakes surrounded by flour mixture )

* * *

He was standing under the door frame, balancing an umbrella, the wine bottle, and a fancy white cardboard bag. He’d been invited for dinner and he'd be damned if he didn't attend. Not like he had anywhere else to be, either. Or anyone who took interest in him besides work. Technically this was work, too. _Do what you have to, but hook him_ , so Jack could land him. Rain washing away the dirt in his shoes. Blurring the mud, blurring the lines between his job and his wants, he almost regretted coming back to the field.

Oddly enough, he didn’t regret meeting him, even after everything he’d put him through. He’d scrambled his brains, but maybe for them, it bore resemblance to a courtship. He’d put a scar on his arms and a noose around his neck. Paid it back. Yet there they stood, day after day, civil, verbally waltzing around each other and their nature, their frowned upon wants.

Hannibal pursed his lips into a smile, as he ushered him in. Umbrella in its place, alcohol thanked and stored away. Eyes kept darting back to the bag. Not trying to be subtle at all.

They opened it by the living room.

Will fumbled with his hands as little as he physically could, he wasn't nervous, just stressed. Bringing three quarters of his salary’s worth under the rain was not routine.

"I wanted to say thank you for staying with me that night. I appreciate your lack of comment about it."

Surprised to see the exact model, from the exact place. It was too thoughtful. He shuffled, almost exasperated, neatly tucking the shoes back inside the box. 

“You needn’t thank me for spending time with you.”

Quickly adding:

“But I do value the gesture, Will. These are my exact size”

A sigh of relief, and a smile. True, creasing his eyes. Matching the slight creases of his recently ironed shirt, of his bit too tight dress pants.

Hannibal took in the sight, noticing the damp but styled hair. He would remember this moment fondly, he hadn’t seen the other man as close to neat and composed. Or emulating it so genuinely. He’d really changed him, hadn’t he?

They both relished in the relaxed atmosphere. Cold breeze through the open windows, warmth from the fireplace. Fire licking their backs with light. Glass of wine after glass of wine, clinking cutlery. Diving out of the person-suits, the usual masks. Moving from one room to the other. Resuming those earthbound topics left at the sessions. Digging up the shallow graves, digging up entire families out of their private graveyards. Back and forth in plans.

Will knew he was the lure. Knew he should’ve been acting but the delight in which they dipped their toes in was freeing. He was alive, in the presence of the other man. He’d never felt as alive, as real, as when he’d tried to fulfill his reckoning in the very same kitchen he’d walked into so nonchalantly tonight.

And yet, a strange compassion had taken him over, doubt crawled into his ear to nest. What if Hannibal _did_ enjoy his presence for his presence's sake? What if he was satisfied with nurturing their twisted sharp “friendship”? Could it be called a friendship?

A pause.

_Did it matter what it was?_

Wasn’t it enough that he enjoyed feeling relieved, unwound, unleashed? He regained control of his ‘madness’. All the fears of his mind evaporated on the walk towards him, lulled him away from the rocks. The way the other man looked at him made it harder to think of all of this as a game, a chess play. He’d been rowing into the warmth of the whimsy, not sure if land was on sight, just wishing to get a catch. Yet a part of him was terrified he’d never see land again after it, be swallowed by the waves.

But weren’t all good fishermen wary of the very sea that fascinated them? Weren’t all good fishermen required to love that which they gut and take apart? He knew he should’ve been acting but it was taking a toll on him lately, getting to his head too quick. Alcohol did not always help. Doubt, doubt, doubt. Hated the change, the way blood flowed differently under his skin. He was becoming a doubtful creature. Never sure if the feelings were him or what his growing antlers needed them to be. 

And the ones he did recognized as his own, plunged him deep into unease. _Why was he so passive when Hannibal’s touch lingered? The hands on his shoulders, on his face..._

He sipped the bottom of the glass, and snapped out. Conversation had died down.

Silence enveloped them, vultures on week-old carcasses. Hannibal was about to pour what was left of the bottle, but Will put his hand on top of the rim, covering it entirely.

“I shouldn’t.” Low and clear, head tilted up, locking eyes. 

He meant it. 

From that position he was drawn to the angles of the man’s features, the cheekbones, the small eyes. Had they always seemed so crisp? Like brushstrokes, like pencil shavings. 

And those hands, corking the bottle. Nicked, burnt, calloused from years of cooking, of rough precision. Oh, those hands knew how to sever and how to stitch. Weren’t they tired? Didn’t they want to be tenderized for once? Didn’t they want to stand back and rest? Let someone else work diligently yet share the fruits?

Hannibal said something but he was focused on the curve of his lips, inviting under the amber lights, the way caramel decorations catch your eye through the bakery’s window. Would they be as sweet?

If he lifted a finger to that mouth, pressed gently, what would happen? Would he bite him? Would he step back and look quizzically? Would he part them gently, let him in? And if he did, what else would he find himself doing?

A drooling sense of curiosity rolled over his stomach and he knew he had to get out. Loneliness had barged in to set questions like an arsonist. It took time to put those fires out. It always took time to assess the damages of the destructive forces in his mind.

Broken eye contact, gripping the armrest for leverage, as gravity was working hard on keeping him in his seat. As if he was meant to exploit his loneliness, keep ablaze. He didn’t want to want it. 

A jittery tongue, cloaked under false exhaustion. 

“I should call a cab, it’s getting late.”

* * *

iii. jō namagashi ( 生菓子 / seasonal wet sweets )

* * *

A knock. Determination in his step, collected, as collected as he could. Hannibal closed the door office behind him, and walked towards the fireplace, where the other man stood. Will rested a hand on the nape of the blonde neck. A buzz between them, as if standing at the edge of the world, ready to keel over.

Amber light against the bluest hour, sharpening their profiles.

He placed a kiss gingerly on his top lip, waiting for permission to delve in. Open. A breath for air as the other man leaned in. The taste. Hannibal could tell the taste. Entrails spilling out, rupturing his skin, as if Will had forced a thousand rocks down his throat to digest. Desire drowned out, sickening him, sickening the way fate had forced it upon him. But he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t stop. He had to make it stop.

Palms on cheek, fingers tugging at the curls. A lingering moment before pulling him away. Cherry red swollen lips.

Will could see himself reflected on the other man’s eyes. Heavy and light as a feather at the same time. Pulled, strung out from both ends. Sinking. After Margot, and the Verger incident, he’d been sinking. He’d needed a drink in him, or two, or seven. Not to act, but to allow himself to think with levity. To be able to say, firmly, _I am not stopping myself anymore_. He’d taken demons out of leashes, he knew how they ran in circles around him. But it took surprisingly more strength to cut the rope on the dog that keeps howling at you. He’s angry and he’s starved, you don’t know if it will attack you, once you set it free. He’d needed the alcohol to not care if it bit through his throat. To get some answers, even if they tasted like rusted nails, even if they cost him everything.

Hannibal’s eyes wore pity with unrestrained beauty, elegance, the way broken mirrors are displayed in art installations. It 's mundane. It 's enthralling. You know how it came to be but you can’t look away.

Conflict settled in the space between their bodies. There was a need that could not be met. Not in this state. 

“Will”

The herculean effort of rolling that name off the tongue that now knew. Knowing the taste seemed like a curse.

“You’re not sober”

Hoarse, dry, disappointed, hitting the bookshelves and back to be processed. Two dozen arrows, through his torso, his neck, his legs. Flesh should’ve tore open just from the pain piercing through.

A single destitute gaze, trying to make sense, trying to understand. But those solemn hungry eyes would not follow him. The starved dog sat still in the same place he’d been tied to, even without a rope.

He put the crown of his head on the other man’s chest, gripping his shirt, almost tearing it from his shoulders. And he let out a wail. A desperate, guttural sound that could’ve startled the dead. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see the tears streaming red against him, Will shaked with a forceful, god-defying anger. 

Knees buckling, hands running down the sides, still trying to hold onto the fabric. Hannibal stood like a pillar, unable to wash away the disturbing nature of love. Pain beatified Will; Saint Sebastian’s representations flashing through behind his eyes, same curls, same hypnotizing effect on him.

Gripping so strongly he’d untucked his shirt, and it ripped. It jolted them both.

Will let go, hands and knees on the floor; if Hannibal had kicked his ribs, he would’ve let him, he would’ve deserved it. There was no point in standing up, he just shuffled into a more dignifying slump.

And once more, a silhouette mirroring, sliding down next to him. Draping an arm around his shoulder, guiding, welcoming; the other man rested against his chest. Hannibal played with his hair to calm him down, showing the dog would not bite, at least not for this.

"Stay with me" resonated inside the older man's chest, filtering through his skin and into Will's ears.

_Where else would I go?_

Sitting in silence, between the hiccups of their own pounding hearts; they drifted. Drifted into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

iv. hanabiramochi ( 葩餅 / tea sweets for the beginning of a new year )

* * *

Fabric had a memory, collective scents. Plans against a burnt paper. Locked eyes, trained coordination. The imperceptible twitch of a jaw. Sudden copper, then sweet. Swift. A blow to the head. Jack fell backwards. The ending they needed, they wanted. 

Gashing, the fisherman wounded by its own bait, its own hook. _Turn a blind eye to the betrayal and move on._ Cruelty comes from disregard as much as it comes from empathy. Trust is a blindfold that expectations knot behind your head. He should’ve known animals don’t follow the rules of men. Will had been treated as such for so long, it was bound to happen, bound to get a taste. God doesn’t follow the rules of men, either. They seem to maul indiscriminately to others, but they share a knowledge, a recognizing feature. Hannibal let him see that. 

They stood under the blood spray, breathing, becoming puzzle pieces. The last two men on earth, bathed in a new future. A lamb who knew how to tear wolve’s throats. A butcher so fond of the lamb he could no longer stomach grazing his teeth against it. 

Steps startled him. A figure out of focus, entering the scene. _Could it be…?_

Such a sight stripped him down to his soul. 

“Abigail”

The jigsaw came into place. As if time had reversed and the wound had never occurred. Ashes turning back into a living, breathing body. Coveted sky laughed in thunder. Exhilarating. Such sweet and easy peace; he’d found it.

Cold.

She slipped between his fingers, or more accurately, he faded in her grip. Smoke. Swirling upwards, into the ceiling light of the kitchen. Draining into the light and out of orbit. 

Crash landing as a teardrop bruised his face.

Will had slipped in his own blood, eyes rolling inside his head looking for refuge. The loose dog had found the ripest place in his body to dig his muzzle in. A bloodhound. Guilt spilled from the hole inside himself, the hole he himself had put there. It was Hannibal’s knife, Hannibal’s hand, but he stood there and took it. He’d take it again if he could. He should’ve had more agency and pressed closer to him, let it rip more than it already had. 

Antlers grew twisted out of his own head and started drilling into his skull, poking his eyes. Saw himself standing, both of them walking backwards in perfect synchronicity, turning the lights off. Nothing was real and he couldn’t snap out. A ghost. He’d been doomed to wake up and wander his last day on this endeavour as a ghost. Who could he haunt if not himself then. What could he see if not what was impossible. 

Time didn’t progress that way. He’d never be the prodigal lamb of the butcher, he’d never become a butcher either. Could not tell how much of him was a predator and how much of him was prey. A mangled half beast, dispossessed, not a home was his in this place. Except maybe the stream in between Heaven and Hell.

No lighthouse, no rocks, no sirens, only shipwreck. The ocean didn’t have a bottom to hit, he just swam with the fish inside his head, who knew he was the lure, who knew why to stay away. He’d been the least self-aware succubus in a man’s bed. Those roaming hands he wishes he could have forever against his skin. But he had to stay underwater, stay bleeding, stay in his place. Will had always been fond of Ophelia, but life seemed to force him out of the play. If he was supposed to be Romeo, he’d already done his best. Either way, he was to die from love and all it's consequences. The ending had been written the moment he'd stepped into his lecture that fateful day. Every decision made from that point on were only nails on the coffin. 

Couldn’t breathe but this time it was fine. This time he didn’t panic. Let the familiar sting spread, let fever streak the hours. Salt water. Dimming the fire he could not bear to keep alight, having to extinguish it to survive. Survival. His whole life has been about surviving himself and yet that layer of skin was the one keeping him alive. The layer that kept being scrubbed raw. _Stop denying that which is a part of yourself_. Underwater, drifting, hitting the windows of his own house. The living room dry, and inside, himself, turning the lights on.

Light turned beige, orange, golden. Blindingly cold golden.

Poured into view, the white ceiling. Sweat caking the forehead, sticking to the soft sheets, to the worn out pillow. Half sitting, a hand seeing for scars, lifting the shirt to check. Expecting a gaping wound, bandages, stitches, anything. Yet he was intact. As intact as he could be.

Will sank back into bed. Deep breaths. He knew exactly what he had to do, even if it meant he’d cross the point of no return. He'd pictured all of today's possible endings.

Except one. 

—

A glance around the room, as the dogs piled around him. A pang of future nostalgia hit him, he knew he'd miss these walls some day. Knew he'd look back into his head and walk down these wooden floors into the porch again and again. Memory was architectural, too. Mind palaces worked naturally because of it.

Black bag tossed into the bin, the crackle of bottles and harsh plastic. The start and the end required cleaning. A detox. As symbolic as practical.

Now, the call.

—

Hannibal had agreed to skip their usual schedule and meet Will directly for dinner, one last time. Yet as he closed the office door, his figure emerged from the dark. 

"I wasn't expecting you" his fingers lingered on the key.

The other man took a step closer.

"Did something happen?" Calm defined them, but not for long. 

"It's not safe for you to go home. Jack is waiting, without a warrant."

A sigh, as the lock snapped into place.

" **There is no knowing what he would do** ” The other man added.

Yet they knew very well. Could they survive the man, if he was prepared? Were two gazelles enough to take down a hungry lion? 

“He thinks you are in session with me, it gives us time to plan accordingly"

"It buys us time"

Will’s flat affect was enough to keep him on the edge, he was retreating into himself. Hannibal’s gaze lingered. 

"Then we shall not waste it."

The car rolled sleek under the rain, through deserted roads and into Wolftrap. The other man could tell from a distance how stripped down to the bone the house felt already. Soaked to the skin and technically already on the run, they strode through the door, and into the warm air. 

No dogs. 

He asked the other man without words. 

“I asked Alana if she could hold them for me until tomorrow”

Coats stacked on the only chair left. Hannibal inspected the surroundings, ghostly, lack of dust where furniture used to be. And still, as WIll lead him through it, the bedroom was intact.

“And she did not ask for a reason?” 

He handed him a towel for his hair, as he sat on the edge of the bed. WIll, towering over him. 

“She did. I told her I needed to scrub the floors” 

Those blue eyes were trying hard to play dead. Compartmentalize. Hunting knife materializing in his hand, out of his pocket. Hannibal was peeling his sweater off, he was vulnerable, for a second. Cashmere between his eyes, arms tangled in the cloth. Exposed, thin cotton sticking to his skin. He’d feel so warm. As blood gushed out of him, as his hand entered and gored. Muscle tearing sleek, like gutting a fish. Love that which you eat. Love that which you destroy.

Rain pooled in his brow, dripping into his eyelash. A single drop. Blink. Will blinked out. Hannibal’s eyes bore into him, wide and wild, but only because he knew how to tell. He could always tell. Those eyes would haunt him if he did such a cowardly thing. How do you deal with yourself after the act? The spectrum of violence and desire, devotion and disgust, living and blurring into each other, like frantic brushstrokes on an oil painting. 

He'd already made a choice, _stop fighting yourself._

Will planted a palm firmly on his chest. He let himself be pushed back into the mattress, even with the menacing glint of a blade. The sweet scent of the atrocious aftershave, of the wooden closet where he kept his clothes, a hint of the wet leaves outside, all washed over him, as the other man climbed. 

Hannibal had his heart on his throat, weighing the words of the rumbling rib cage above. 

_They… They know, because_

Shaky breaths, dropping the knife in the sheets.

_I was supposed to_

With the back of a finger he traced a line from cheekbone to jaw, curve at the chin. 

_seduce you_

_for them to catch you, trap you. I thought about gutting you, so this could all end, and I didn’t have to choose._

Forehead against forehead, as Hannibal licked his lips. Mixed, hard to breathe. Was that the voice of a succubus or a fallen angel? He hadn't suspected a thing, how had he not known, not seen the trap? 

For the first time in a long time, he felt lucky. And he'd always found Luck to be a discourteous wretched thing.

_But I’ve been selfish, choosing you, Hannibal. Seduced you_

Will lowered for a swift, quick kiss, and smiled in his own desperate way. 

_all for myself._

Before the other man had time to grab his hair and pull him back, he rolled over. Hovering was getting uncomfortable. Side by side, the older man could not bear the space between them. Will had become an extension of himself, a layer of skin, the blood in his veins, the food at his table. Side by side, grabbing him by the flannel towards him. Brushing a stray curl from his face.

_And now I won’t let them take you, much less lead you to them._

They stopped altogether, breathing, thinking. As if time had run out. Frozen, glued eyes. But something had to be said. Attempted betrayal was betrayal nonetheless. Echoing louder than the thunder outside, it rang.

_Do you forgive me?_

_._

_._

_._

“I forgive you, Will.”

Intense and electric as the storm outside, their gaze. Tender. Brutal. Honest. Hunting season had just begun.

And as they charged their bags into the car, a thud. He looked at the mud besides him. The silver glint, the ring had slipped out of his finger; a tight arm reaching to hold the earth, the suit now fits. He'd swept the Devil off his feet. Pour yourself one, Will, forever linked now, you and him. **Because who else would it be, if not the original stray?**

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Comments/Feedback is encouraged.


End file.
